Past Away
by Miss Prongs
Summary: Postwar, postHogwarts. Draco has lost his life, his purpose, the war he was fighting, and most of all, himself. Harry Potter is the best and worst thing to happen to him. [Abandoned].
1. Chapter One

The time is five past eternity, and the room is dark.

Pitch black, if one were being finickity. Black, seeping into the corners, coating the walls and the ceiling. Black, dusting the little dresser and the creaking chair. Black, falling over the shaking body and crisp, clean clothes.

Suddenly, a beam of light falls through the door as it opens, the room and occupant hissing in disgust.

'Draco?' says a voice from the door, softly. There is no reply. The voice sighs. 'They're waiting.'

The occupant of the room shifts slightly. 'Aren't they always?' he says, bitterly.

There is a long pause, and all that can be heard is the soft ticking of a watch, lurking somewhere in the deep dark.

'They love you.' the voice whispers, and it is a strange revelation.

'I know.' Draco says, quietly.

There is another long pause, and the owner of the voice drums their fingers along the door.

'Why are you sitting in the dark? Are you ready?' the voice asks, slightly on edge.

Draco nods, but in the dark, it cannot be seen.

'Are you ok?' the voice asks finally.

'I'm fine.' Sarcasm, but it is missed.

'Well...are you coming?'

'In a minute.' Draco says.

A pause.

'Shall I tell them you're coming?'

Draco sighs. 'If you must.'

The voice hesitates, before shutting the door once again.

Draco lets out a breath, and gripping his wand in his hand, he mutters, '_Lumos!'_. The shadows and the evils of the dark scamper away, letting a soft, dim light fill the room. It is small, unadorned and empty save for a small dresser. One of the ones that can be found backstage of a popular production, complete with too many lights, a dusty mirror and a beautiful star.

This particular dresser, in Draco's opinion, lacks something. Whether it is the beautiful star or something else, Draco isn't sure.

He sucks in a breath, and dares to study his reflection in the mirror.

Angular cheeks and smooth, pale skin. Swirling, grey eyes thick with eyeliner. Strands of blond hair falling artfully down his face. Pouting lips, with small creases where he bites them unconsciously. Slightly pointed but still very strong features. Effeminate, perhaps.

Someone once told Draco he was beautiful. He didn't know what to make of it. He still doesn't.

He reaches out his hands, examining them. Shaking. Pale. Long, elegant, clean. Pianist's hands. Lover's hands. Killer's hands.

Draco fancies he can see the blood running down them. He shakes himself.

_They love you_.

That's what he needs to focus on.

But that never works, does it? Because Draco knows, better than anyone else, what unrequited love is.

Worthless.

Draco sighs, and picking up the microphone, he heads into the madness he created for himself.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I suffer from stupidity. In other words, I'm not smart enough to make something like "Harry Potter" up, nor figure out a way to earn money off it. This is all just for silly pleasure.

**A/N: **I was going to write a sixth/seventh year fic, but seeing as the new book is coming out soonish, I decided to postpone that until I can incorporate the new details it will introduce, and create this fic that is deliberately vague in timing. It is, however, definitely post-war and post-Hogwarts. It will also be (eventually) Harry/Draco. The rating is to encompass all that I am likely to include, with (strong) possibilities of (consensual) sex and violence (yes, you read that right), offensive language, and cringe-worthy writing.

It is also, for those of you who _have_ read my other Harry/Draco, a chance to portray the Slytherins in a better light (namely Blaise, who I gave a bad reputation). It is also weirder and more angsty than my other Harry/Draco. For those of you who _haven't_ read my other fic...what on earth are you waiting for:D.

Note: The war was fought, the Side of the Light won, and Draco wasn't on it. Oh, and I'm not a (complete) idiot: the title of this story is meant to be that way.

xXxXxXx

Draco pulls the woolen gloves over his fingers meticulously, examining his shaking hands once more, before making his way down the stairs of his shabby apartment, down through the empty bar and out into the day. It is crisp and cool, just the type of day to give a rosy pink tinge to a person's cheeks, one that Draco feels is entirely too innocent-looking for him to deserve.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out, watching the mist escape his mouth. He frowns, and furtively looks around. Draco hates days like this. Well, he loves them, really, but he hates the fact that people can see him breathing. When he's breathing. How often he breathes. How dare they know? Once, someone laughed at Draco when he told them this. 'No one cares about your breathing, Draco.' they said, mockingly. But Draco cares. Draco cares that they know. Breathing is one of those things that should not be seen, and should not be heard. Draco holds his breath as he walks past strangers in the street, and the dawdlers watch him curiously as his face turns to crimson.

Draco strides quickly, drumming his fingers against his thighs. He has never strolled, taken a leisurely walk in the park. Walking is a form of transportation, why waste precious time? Besides, no one gets in the way of someone who is _striding_. They have a purpose, somewhere to be; a life. Never mind that it's usually a lie, it makes Draco feel important.

Because once upon a time, he was.

Draco snorts, and muses. Funny how the mind supplies memories, which aren't actually memories, more like wishing, hopeful thinking. Sometimes the mind will give you a memory, just gloss over it a little bit. Fill in a few blanks, never mind how it goes. Change a few details.

_Draco, are you alright? Draco, are you sure you're ok? Draco, can I help you?_

Never mind that it never was "Draco". Never mind that those green eyes never looked at him with concern, or compassion. Or maybe they did? Days, weeks, hours, years, seconds...they all ran together, back then.

Back _then_.

In the war.

Which is over now. Draco shivers. Scary thought, that. It shouldn't be. It should be...enlightening. Envigourating. Exciting. Empowering.

But Draco is just scared. Where has his life gone? What does he have to show for it? Who has he got to share it with? Cold and alone?

And then he remembers. Ah, yes.

He doesn't _want_ to share it with anyone. He always was a spoilt child. Draco looks around carefully, before letting out a shallow breath. If he could smile, he would.

He comes to the park, small and rather sad. The trees are glorious; huge giants of fluttering leaves and creaking branches, but there are only a few. Old swings, a little slide, tubes and bars. A little bench, which he promptly sits down at, and looks around vaguely. A few of the children look a little frightened of him, and one small girl clings closer to her mother's leg as Draco's gaze falls upon her.

When Draco was younger, he'd always hoped he'd turn out like this. Terrifying people with merely a glance. But now it just makes him feel tired. Not powerful, not alone, not upset, not formidable, just...tired.

Draco doesn't know how long he sits in the park for, staring around, holding his breath as much as he can. After a while, he starts to feel light-headed, and a shiver goes through him.

Someone once told Draco that when you shiver, it's because a dead person is walking through you. Draco hates that, because thinking about it makes him want to shiver again.

Someone sits down next to Draco, and he looks out of the corner of his eye to see a young woman, seeming to be about his age. A cigarette hanging out of her fingertips. A coat that would have been the envy of everyone in town had it not possessed a large hole in the side. Cropped, black hair.

Draco drums his fingers on his legs, humming softly, and the woman sighs.

'How long have you been sitting here, Draco?' she asks, and Draco swallows.

'I don't know.' he says, softly. Truthfully.

'You know you're welcome in my house. You don't have to sit outside.'

'I'm not sitting outside your house. I'm sitting in the park.'

The woman nods, and takes a long drag of her cigarette. Draco thinks this suits her, because she looks like she once was full and whole and wonderful, and then something came along and took a long drag out of her, burning her out.

'Pansy?' he asks, softly.

'Yes, Draco?'

'How did you know I was out here?' he questions, watching her carefully.

Pansy Parkinson sighs, and Draco watches the steam flow out of her mouth, and hastily checks to make sure his own mouth isn't doing the same. 'You always sit out here, Draco.' she says in a pained voice.

Draco nods, satisfied with the answer.

'It's warm inside, Draco. There's food, and Blaise is round.' Pansy says, purposely looking away, so Draco can breathe. She knows he hates it when people watch, and Draco is grateful. He lets out a long breath, and tenses all his body muscles to stop himself from shivering. He doesn't know what to say, so he stays silent.

'Come on, love.' Pansy says, grasping Draco's arm and pulling him up.

'Please don't touch me.' Draco whispers.

Pansy nods. 'Sorry, Draco. Come on.' she says. 'Or I'll leave without you.'

Draco knows that Pansy knows it is a nasty trick. Well, she was a Slytherin. Draco nods, and follows her to her little apartment, just across the road. The window is directly in front of Draco's little bench.

xXxXxXx

Pansy's living room is warm, and little bits of sunshine dust float down from the window. Blaise is sitting on the couch, his right arm up on the side. Pansy closes the door roughly behind her, and throws her keys down on the little table in front of the couch.

'He was sitting on the bench again.' she says to Blaise, and then turns to Draco. 'Sit down, Drakie. Would you like tea, or coffee?'

Draco nods. Pansy rolls her eyes.

'Which one?'

Draco bites his lip. 'I don't drink coffee.'

Pansy frowns. 'You always used to.'

Draco shrugs. 'And I like my tea a special way.'

Pansy and Blaise exchange a look. 'A _special _way, hmm?'

'Spices and things.' Draco says, vaguely. There is a pause as Draco looks around the room. Pansy takes a deep breath, and lets it out.

'_Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, alors, monsieur_?' she says, almost sarcastically.

Draco shrugs. 'I suppose a normal tea will be fine.'

'Wonderful.' says Pansy, and before moving to the kitchen, she gestures for Draco to take a seat next to Blaise. Draco nods, and sits down on the couch. Blaise grins.

'How are things, mate?' Blaise asks.

Draco nods. 'Fine.' he says, surveying his hands. His fingertips have gone numb, and the veins in his hands are clearly visible. His hands shake, and he thrusts them into his pockets and looks back to Blaise.

'You were great last night, mate. Really great.' Blaise says.

Draco nods. 'Ok.' he says, looking down at Blaise's shoes. Italian leather. Almost like the ones he used to have.

Blaise rolls his eyes. 'You're supposed to say thank you!'

Draco nods again. 'Ok.' he says. He looks up at Blaise. 'Thank you, Blaise.'

'There were a few nice ladies there that were looking pretty interested in you, you know. You were tugging on those heart strings with those tears, mate.'

'Are you saying I should stop?'

'No, no, no.' Blaise says, hastily. 'I'm just saying you certainly have a large crowd of admirers.'

Draco shifts. 'I don't...put on the tears, you know. I can't help them.'

Blaise nods, and there is an uncomfortable silence. Draco remembers how things used to be with them, back in the day. Back at school. There never used to be uncomfortable silences. It was all talking and laughing and chatting and joking, and it always seemed very natural.

Draco wonders when it was that Blaise changed.

'Tea's ready!' Pansy calls from the kitchen, which seems silly, as in the small apartment, the kitchen is only a few metres away.

'I hope you made some for me, you little wench. You didn't even ask!' Blaise calls out.

'Lazy bastard, you can make it yourself.' Pansy says, walking into the room with two cups of steaming tea. She hands one to Draco, and Blaise scowls. 'Fuck, look at you pout. I was just having you on.' Pansy says, grinning, and Blaise's face lights up as she hands him the cup.

'Thanks, love.' he says, and takes a large sip of his tea. 'Ah, hot hot!' he splutters.

'Of course it is, you twat.' Pansy says, rolling her eyes. She looks over at Draco to share a "what an idiot" glance that they always used to, but found he was elsewhere, looking out the window silently. 'Draco? Are you with us?' she asks.

Draco blinks a couple of times, and looks back. 'What?'

Pansy walks to the kitchen, and comes back with her own cup of tea, setting it down gingerly on the table before flopping down on the adjacent couch.

'You seem a bit distracted.' she notes, and Blaise makes a face behind Draco's back. Pansy glares at him, and he purses his lips.

'I thought I just saw...' Draco says, but catching his friends' faces he falls quiet.

'Saw what, Draco?' Pansy prompts.

'If you say Harry Potter, I swear I'll kill you.' Blaise warns, frowning.

'Blaise!' Pansy scolds, looking warily at him.

'What?' Blaise demands. 'I'm sick of hearing about fucking Harry Potter. We fought a _war_ against him, Draco, and we _lost_. Your father is dead, my father is dead, Pansy's father is dead...hell, nearly all of our families are dead. Our _Lord_ is dead...and you know who else is dead, Draco?'

'Blaise...' Pansy says, with a long suffering sigh, like she's heard this a million times.

'Harry-fucking-Potter. Yes, that's right, Draco! He's _dead_. He's _not_ a ghost, there are no particles of his body left to make a polyjuice...he's _dead_. Ok? Have you got that?'

Draco sips his tea. 'I know that, Blaise. Don't you think I know that?'

Blaise sits there, watching Draco, his mouth set hard, his eyes fiery. There is a long pause as Pansy stares at Blaise, Blaise stares at Draco, and Draco stares down at his shaking hands, holding his cup of unsweetened, unspiced tea.

'How can you stay so fucking calm all the time, Draco?' Blaise asks, finally.

'Blaise.' Pansy says, sharply. 'I do _not_ want to have this conversation now.' But everyone ignores Pansy, much like they did when she suggested perhaps muggleborns weren't as bad as everyone seemed to think they were.

'What do I have to be uncalm about?' Draco asks, softly. 'Like you say...everyone's dead.'

'But doesn't that make you _angry_? Doesn't that make you just want to _live_?' Blaise demands.

'Yes.' Draco says, simply.

Whatever Blaise is expecting, that isn't it.

'Then why aren't you?' he asks, finally, brokenly.

'I am.' Draco says, quietly. 'Of course I am. How am I not?'

No one knows what to say to this, so they keep quiet, and Draco continues.

'I'm living. I have a business, which I founded, own and run. You were there just the other night, Blaise. There is a bar, and a dance floor, and I sing there. I live in the apartment above. How is that not living?' Draco asks, but the inhabitants of the room feel it is rhetorical, and stay quiet, so Draco continues. 'I get angry. Of course I get angry. But you know what happens when I get angry?'

They other two shake their heads.

'Nothing.' Draco says. 'Nothing at all. Except...hurt, sometimes. I hurt myself, and others, and things. Destruction. And since that's what's made me angry in the first place, it seems more than slightly ridiculous to...to...'

The others wait for Draco to finish his sentence, but it seems he is having trouble.

'We understand, Draco.' Pansy interrupts, softly.

Draco nods, and looks down at his cooling cup of tea, not really wanting to drink the disgusting liquid. Draco has been forced to acquire many a taste in his life, but unadorned tea has always been just out of reach.

'I guess what I'm trying to say is,' Blaise starts, and Pansy shoots him a warning glare, but he just swallows and continues, '...is...what are...I mean, why can't...why aren't you happy?' he says, looking at Draco with a frown.

Draco blinks. 'Happy?' he asks, bemused.

Blaise nods. 'Yeah. You don't...you don't seem very happy.'

Draco considers this. Happy. 'Oh.' he says. He looks over at Pansy, who is watching him carefully.

'I mean...are you?' asks Blaise.

There is a long silence, as Draco chews his lip, before finally answering, 'Well...yes.'

Blaise gets the distinct impression that Draco's agreement is rather like an adult's when a child asks them, 'Is it fun to be an adult?'. Like he doesn't want to say "no", because that's not entirely true, but "yes" seems like it's a lie too. Like the person asking the question couldn't possibly comprehend a different answer. Or the truth.

'Well...something's wrong, Draco. And we need to know.' Blaise says, quietly.

'Wrong?' asks Draco, placing his cup on the table. 'Oh, I don't think so.'

'No?' Blaise asks, bitterly. 'When was the last time you laughed, Draco?'

_When was the last time you said something funny? _Draco wants to say, but instead, he sighs. 'I don't know.'

'Yeah? And when was the last time you smiled?'

A pause. 'I don't know.'

'And when was the last time you had meaningful sex with someone?'

'Blaise!' Pansy gasps.

'Or even meaningless sex?' Blaise presses on.

'Is this what this is all about? The fact that I happen to not be in a relationship at the present time?' Draco asks.

'Of course it's fucking not!' Blaise snaps, and Pansy worries her bottom lip. 'It's about the fact that I feel like they actually _did_ catch you, and _did_ administer the Dementor's Kiss, and I'm wondering what the fuck I'm supposed to do with this empty vessel, and where the fuck I can find _Draco_ again!'

Pansy's bottom lip is starting to turn red, and her eyes are misting over. She tries to give Draco a smile, but it is grim, and he isn't looking anyway.

Pansy's Grandfather clock, the one thing that was left amidst the burning rubble of her estate, ticks loudly from the corner of the room, counting away the seconds as they all sit there.

Draco swallows, and appreciates the fact that this is something Blaise has been needing to get out for a long time. Pansy doesn't look very happy. A tear slides down her cheek, and Draco wonders vaguely where the Slytherin inside her is hiding.

'I'm sorry you feel that way, Blaise.' Draco says, neutrally.

Blaise stares at Draco's impassive face for a long time. 'Where are you, Draco?' he whispers, after what feels like an age has passed.

Draco grinds his teeth slightly, before standing up. 'Going home.'

'Yeah?' Blaise whispers. 'Call me when you get there.'

Draco realises its a metaphor, but nods anyway.

'If I make it.' he adds, perhaps to antagonize the man sitting in front of him, the Slytherin part of him sneaking out to subconsciously defend himself.

Pansy sniffles, and Blaise grips her hand.

Draco closes the door behind him, and makes his way out into the world again.

xXxXxXx

Reviews are appreciated. Very very muchly. More up soon if it's wanted, and maybe sometime in the future for my own pleasure if not.


	3. Chapter Three

**Note:** One man's kink is another man's squick, or so they say. Necrophilia, for me, is a squick. It's not going to happen in this story, nor in any other stories I write. Just to calm a few worried and wonderful reviewers who expressed their concerns in this area.

xXxXxXx

Draco sits at the little table in the coffee shop, his grey eyes scanning the room. He sits in a corner, and watches as events unfold right before his eyes. He thinks its interesting, how people can laugh and talk and plan things and _live their lives_ right in front of everyone else, completely oblivious. Draco supposes he's going through a bit of a "teenage girl" stage; over-sensitised to every movement and everything everyone says, but he supposes its better than being numb.

He watches a young man, obviously caught up in his own thoughts, bustle quickly into the shop and order a coffee to go. He stares around, his black hair sparkling with water, his glasses catching the light of the feeble sun from outside. He looks immensely relieved when he is handed his coffee after a few minutes, and Draco watches as Harry Potter knocks into someone, apologises profusely, then leaves out the door.

Draco scowls. If he's going crazy, he'd like it to be all the way, thank you very much. What on earth is the point of going crazy, seeing things, if you know that its not real? It's hardly fair, Draco muses, and wipes at invisible pieces of dust on the little dark table.

'Would you like anything?' comes a voice from beside Draco, and he turns to see a bright looking woman wearing a lurid pink top staring down at him.

'Not particularly.' Draco says, dully. The woman frowns.

'Well, if you don't mind my asking, sir, what-'

'I said I wouldn't _like_ anything. I'll have a long black, please.' Draco interrupts. The woman looks highly affronted, and once upon a time Draco would have smiled cheekily at her, watched her go, stolen glances, and apologised for his rude behaviour and thanked her when she gave him her phone number and a free coffee before he left. Now, he merely turns away.

Three young teenage girls sit giggling on one of the tables, looking extremely proud of their chocolate mochas in front of them. They keep stealing glances around, their chins jutting up, as if to show off their advancing in the world. Draco shakes his head slightly, and looks down at his table.

There is a small glass on the smooth wooden surface, filled with packets of sugar. Draco gets the sudden urge to take one out and eat it. So he does. He can only imagine the look on his father's face if he could see him now, and Draco chokes slightly as he downs the sweet crystals.

A few people glare at him, looking like they've been personally insulted by his display of common uncourtesy, and the girls watch him for a bit as his adam's apple works the sugar down, before bursting into another fit of giggles.

Not very suddenly, the door swings open, bringing along with it a gust of cold air and a girth of cold man. Draco freezes as he reocognises the figure clad completely in black.

The man looks up, and his obsidian eyes lock with Draco's immediately. Draco chokes on nothing, and his mind shuts down, taking along with it his ability to move.

The man moves away from the door and walks slowly in the direction of Draco's table, his dark eyes piercing through Draco's skin, as if to decide if he's really there.

The door swings open again, and bustling in comes a man Draco most definitely recognises. His amber hair is tinged with grey now, and he most certainly doesn't see Draco as he moves purposely towards the dark man, and slips his hand into his.

'Severus, what are you-' Remus Lupin whispers into Severus Snape's ear, before freezing when he follows Snape's gaze to Draco. Lupin's mouth falls open, and his eyes widen comically. 'Malfoy?'

'Remus.' Snape says, quietly. 'Go home.'

Lupin looks upset. 'Pardon? I just-'

'I'll meet you there.' Snape says, in a cold voice.

Lupin sighs, and looks down sadly. 'Yes, Severus.' he murmurs, and he gives Draco a glance, before turning and walking out of the shop.

Snape's eyes bore into Draco's, and neither of them say anything for a long time. Draco wonders if Snape is actually there, or if he's another "Harry Potter" come to visit him. A relic from the past, haunting him. He hopes he isn't, but then he hopes he is, too. A relic from the past couldn't alert ministry officals on Draco's whereabouts. Then again, a real person couldn't make everyone in the shop stare at Draco like he's crazy. Then again, a few already are.

'What are you doing here?' Snape asks, finally. Smoothly. His baritone voice rolls along the air and caresses Draco's eardrums, and he gives a little shiver. What he would have done for a voice like piercing knives and dripping honey back in the day.

'Drinking coffee.' Draco answers, softly.

'I thought you didn't drink coffee anymore.' Snape says, and Draco realises this is an extremely odd conversation. Draco hasn't seen Snape for years. Then again, they have an extremely odd relationship with one another. Not that it can really be even called that. Hate. Resentment. Empathy and understanding and confusion, all mixed into one. They don't know each other at all, really. Not as people.

Draco frowns. 'How do you know that?' he asks, daring to look up at Snape.

The experienced occlumens raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Draco swallows, and finally breaks Snape's dark gaze and looks down at his empty sugar packet.

'How are you, then?' Draco asks, then winces as he realises what a fool he sounds.

There is a long pause, and there is silence apart from the inane chatter of contented muggles. The clinking of glasses in greetings and toasts, the scraping of cutlery against plates as food is devoured, the click of shoes against the dark floors, the soft twinkling of the music filling in the gaps.

'We walked the line, Malfoy, but we did not do it hand in hand.' Snape says.

Draco nods, and understands.

'The ministry is looking for you.' Snape says, in a bland voice.

Draco nods. 'I know.' he says, quietly. _No shit,_ he feels like saying.

'Then what are you doing in plain site of everyone, hmm? They'll kill you.' Snape says, but it sounds more like he thinks he's telling a joke than giving a warning.

'Ministry officials don't hang around in muggle coffee shops.' Draco says, quietly, knowing full well that comment was born to die.

'That's a naive way of looking at the world.' Snape comments. Draco nods. The waitress comes along, sporting a scowl, and plops Draco's thick brown drink in front of him. Draco nods his thanks, and the woman casts a nervous glance at Snape before moving to clear the table across the room.

'Surely you realise you're in danger.' Snape says, in a bored tone.

_One can only hope, _Draco feels like saying, but instead he makes a non committal, 'Hmmm,' andbegins pouring sugar into the drink he has no intention of drinking.

'Oh yes,' Snape smirks, 'you were always one to walk on the wild side, weren't you?'

'I thought I was on the line.' Draco says, quietly.

'Not as well as you'd like to think.' Snape replies, his tone void of emotion.

Draco nods, and grips his little white cup tightly. There are long scars that criss cross along his hands, shining white at certain angles in the light. He hates his hands in the day time, and looks away. There is another long pause, and Snape just stands there, looming over Draco. Draco frowns, and tugs at his lip with his teeth.

'Is Harry Potter really dead?' he asks.

Snape stiffens, and something flickers across his face. His glare on Draco intensifies, burning. 'Why would you ask that?' he asks, carefully.

'I really don't know.' Draco murmurs. _I keep seeing him everywhere, _he feels like saying, but that sounds too crazy, even for him. He looks up at Snape, and is mortified when he realises he must have said it aloud.

'I should hope not.' Snape says, annoyance in his voice, and Draco feels a strange urge to analyse Snape's answer further, but it is forgotten as Snape takes a deep breath and clears his throat. 'Goodbye, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco opens and closes his mouth a few times, before finally pursing his lips. 'Goodbye.' he says, softly.

Snape clenches his jaw, turns on his heel, and leaves.

It is only once the last of his dark hair flicks out the door that a million questions pop into Draco's head. _How are you? What are you doing with Remus Lupin? Are you still at Hogwarts? What are you doing now? How are people treating you? How long were you a spy? Was it hard fooling Voldemort? Were you really a spy, or just exceedingly better at walking the line? What do you think of me? Are you going to turn me in? What do you know about Harry Potter? Where is he now?_

Of course, Draco knows the answer to the last question. He's dead. Everybody knows that. Draco shakes himself.

_What does it mean when you start seeing things?_

_What do they do with crazy ex-Death Eaters?_

XxXxXxX

Draco climbs up the hard, metal staircase to the second floor of the old building. He comes to his little door, and opens it with his little key, and shuffles inside with little footsteps. He throws his keys down on the table in an imitation of Pansy, and slams the door shut behind him, taking pleasure in the resounding clang that reverberates around the room.

He lets out a deep breath and looks around his room, the only place he can call home. The walls are dark, black, peeling and crusty, but Draco likes this. Downstairs, in the club, everything is spick and span, new and fab, glam and clean, but upstairs, in the heart of it all, it's falling to pieces. Old and alone and broken and ruined. Draco keeps this like a secret, a blood oath, and it also amuses him to no end. It's like his very own metaphor for life.

He collapses down onto the old, busted couch, then lets out a gasp when something sharp pokes into his back. He moves aside, and looks down to see an old kitchen knife, gleaming.

A few thoughts flutter across Draco's mind, but then a memory.

_'I want a word with you, Draco.' Lucius had said, in that imperious tone he always used to use, full of clipped vowels and enunciated words. _

_'Yes, father?' Draco had said, in a bored tone._

_'I want to speak to you about the temptation of self-mutilation.'_

_Draco had blinked. 'Father?' he had asked, bemused._

_'The whole idea is utterly preposterous.' Lucius had sneered, and Draco had sighed, and prepared himself for one of Lucius's usual talks, which were usually full of "controlling your emotions" and "fighting weakness with strength" and "resisting temptation". However, what Lucius had said next made Draco nearly fall out of his chair._

_'If a part of you craves violence and blood and pain and strength, then you merely have to seduce someone into doing it for you.'_

_Draco had stared at his father, shocked, and mouthed wordlessly._

_'Oh, this may seem a strange concept to you now, Draco, but give it a while. The need will come.'_

_Draco's eyes were as wide as they could go as he stared at his cool and collected father. 'S-seduce?' he had stuttered._

_'Oh, yes.' Lucius had drawled, lazily. 'And if you get the right one, they can even make it enjoyable.'_

Draco shudders as he remembers his father's definition of the word "enjoyable". It usually involved driving someone so mad with pleasure and pain, the line between was indefinitely smudged. Lucius didn't even seem to have a line.

Draco stands up, and wanders over to his bed, up against the wall a few metres away. It is an old iron bed, and Draco likes the way the iron posts wrap and curl around each other. He stares down at it for a moment, before collasping in. He lies on his back and sighs, reaching down beside the bed for the wand he keeps there.

He grasps it in his fingers, and feels the familiar feeling of uncomfort, of wrongness, of pain. It isn't his wand, of course. He had to get rid of that, to make sure the ministry couldn't track its magic. So now, he has someone else's wand. Blaise had gotten it for him, and by the look in his eyes when he had handed it to him, Draco had decided not to question its previous owner, or origin. Don't ask, don't tell, and all that.

Particularly powerful spells are extremely difficult to do with someone else's wand. Draco gets away with lumos and scourgify, and other housework type spells, but if he tried to cast the killing curse he'd probably implode.

He feels the smooth wood burn slightly against his hand as he mutters a simple locking charm on the door. He knows even a first year wizard could open it with a simple, '_Alohomora_,' but he's more worried about Muggles for the time being. Besides, he's as good as dead if a wizard finds out where he is anyway.

He lets the wand drop from his fingers, and curls up on the bed, his back facing away from the wall. He's been doing that for years; he can't even remember the last time he slept facing the wall. It's always been a paranoia of his that someone will sneak up on him. Not that it matters which way he's facing, because one can be sneaked up on when one is sleeping, no matter _what_ position one is in, but Draco hates the feeling of facing away, of feeling the shadows slinking up on him. He imagines lying in wait as they creep up on him, and turning around to see their bloodied faces centimetres away.

He shivers, and vaguely thinks about setting an alarm clock, so he can get up in time to sing something in the club tonight. People came every night to see him, lined up for hours. But Draco snorts, and snuggles in deeper. Let Blaise deal with everyone.

Give him something to _really_ worry about.

xXxXxXx

'Draco? Are you there?' a muffled voice says, waking Draco up from his slumber. Draco's heart is pounding, and his body is in a nervous sweat, shaking all over, even though his sleep had been mercifully dreamless. He swallows, and takes a few short breaths.

He is shrouded in darkness, save for a small trickle of light falling in through his little window. Half of his blankets have fallen off him, and he shivers involuntarily.

'Are you ready? What are you doing?' the voice asks, and Draco sighs.

'Fuck off, Blaise.' he murmurs, not loud enough by far for Blaise to hear him. Draco hears Blaise let out an exasperated sigh, and whisper,

'_Alohomora_.' Draco hears the lock click, and the door is pushed open, revealing a silhouetted man standing in the doorway. He takes a few steps and stares at Draco.

'What are you doing? People are starting to come. They want to see you.' Blaise says, staring at Draco like he's just sprouted an extra head.

'I shouldn't have to perform every night.' Draco mutters, flinging his pale arm up to shade his sleepy eyes from the light falling in from the hall.

'No, but you do.' Blaise replies, and Draco shakes his head, and sits up slowly, and the world spins around and around, and around a few more times. Blaise stares at him expectantly, and Draco scowls and shivers as he pulls himself out of bed. 'Let's get you ready, hmm?' Blaise says, as if Draco hadn't expressed anything but enthusiasm for the night's show. 'Have you got something to sing?'

'I always have something to sing.' Draco murmurs, sadly, though not quite sure why.

Blaise peers at Draco closely and sniffs the air. 'You haven't been drinking, have you?' he asks, suspiciously. Draco shakes his head.

'No.' he says, adding silently, _though I bloody well should have._

'Good.' Blaise saids, firmly. 'I've got some clothes for you,' he says, and indicates Draco's little table, which has upon it a suit in a fancy plastic bag. It looks extremely out of space in the dark, dank little room.

Draco doesn't move, and Blaise sighs. 'Come on. You don't want to be homeless, do you?'

_It might make things little more interesting_, Draco thinks, but instead shakes his head as Blaise is expecting him to, and walks over to the little table. Blaise smiles, and lets his eyes roam around the little room. His gaze falls upon the knife lying on the couch, and he snaps his head to Draco. 'You...you haven't...' he says, trailing off, indicating the knife with his eyes.

Draco follows his gaze, and shakes his head. 'No.' he says, and pulls off his shirt, shivering as the cool air hits his sweaty chest. Blaise licks his lips, and watches as Draco pulls on the creamy shirt, and begins to try to do it up.

'Do you remember,' Blaise says quietly, 'back at Hogwarts?'

Draco's eyes mist over slightly. _How could I not?_ 'Yes.' he mutters, quietly.

'And,' Blaise says, silently urging himself on, 'How we used to...late at night...' he trails off, trying to catch Draco's eyes.

Draco frowns, and looks up at Blaise, who is staring at him intently. He remembers. He doesn't understand the significance. He fumbles with the buttons with his shaky hands, and cries out exasperatedly when he continues to fail.

'Here. Let me.' Blaise offers, walking over to Draco. He asks silent permission with his eyes as he takes Draco's hands in his, and Draco looks away agitatedly, nodding his consent. Blaise smiles, and begins doing Draco's buttons up, taking long breaths of Draco's scent. Draco's breaths are still quite fast and erratic, but Blaise knows this is how Draco always is when he first wakes up.

'When we didn't use silencing charms, and we'd have to be quiet so we wouldn't wake anyone up,' Blaise continues, speaking so softly it is almost a whisper. 'In the summer, when it was hot and sweet and we'd try so hard not to make a sound...' Blaise trails off, and his fingers still, and he looks into Draco's eyes.

Draco wonders if Blaise has been drinking himself, or been taking drugs. _What's your point_?he wants to ask, but instead he just stares back into Blaise's dark eyes.

Blaise bites his lip. 'Draco? Do you...do you think...' he murmurs, but Draco just stares at him. Blaise takes a deep breath and presses his lips to Draco's.

Draco is slightly taken aback, and feels himself frowning. Blaise's lips mould softly against his, but Draco feels detached, and wrong, and not at all like he used to feel when they used to kiss. He tries to remember the flairs of passion and arousal the tore through him everytime they kissed, but as Blaise moans, trying to deepen it, all that is running through Draco's head is the coffee shop, and not-Harry-Potter.

He feels Blaise's pliant tongue trying to delve into his mouth, and he pulls away. 'Blaise...no.' he mutters.

'Why not, Draco?' Blaise asks, softly. 'We used to have so much fun. It was so good...' Blaise trails off, looking down. 'I just want to make you happy.' he adds, desperately.

'But I _am_ happy.' Draco insists, trying to assure not only Blaise.

Blaise sighs, and reaches out his hands, and continues to do up Draco's buttons. Draco thinks about batting his hands away, and telling him he can do it himself, but the truth of the matter is, he can't, so he says nothing and lets Blaise stay.

Blaise's face looks angry and upset, and Draco feels a little pinprick in his heart. 'Blaise,' he says, softly, and Blaise's eyes slowly find their way to Draco's. 'I'm sorry.' he murmurs.

Blaise shakes his head. 'You don't need to apologise.' Blaise says, and finishing off Draco's last button, he smiles at Draco. 'There you go,' he says, and brushes the shirt a few times with his hand, 'all done.'

'Thank you.' Draco nods, and Blaise shrugs, and turns away.

Suddenly, a thought flashes across Draco's mind. 'Pansy set you up to that, didn't she.' he says. He knows that Blaise knows he means the kiss, not anything else.

Blaise turns back around. 'Why?' he asks.

Draco shrugs.

'Well, she did express an...interest in the idea.' Blaise says, carefully, and Draco nods, and looks down at his feet. 'Not that...not that I did it because she told me to,' Blaise says.

'Of course not.' Draco assures him, and Blaise nods, and everything is quiet again. Draco can't remember when it was that things started feeling uncomfortable between the two of them, but if feels like forever. Everything used to come naturally, talking and laughing and...other things. Now it feels like they're strangers.

'Well, I guess you'd better keep getting ready. Where's your make up?' Blaise asks, briskly.

_Fucked if I know_. Draco shrugs.

Blaise nods, and taking Draco by the arm, he leads him out of the little room into the hallway, and down to Draco's little dressing room.

Blaise doesn't offer Draco a chance to have a shower. Draco doesn't want one anyway.

xXxXxXx


End file.
